Look on the Dark Side
by Aranel Naur
Summary: A story where Adam, fallen angel, has his eye on Tommy, good angel, and wants to get him at any cost. What difficulties will he have to face, will he get the desired, is he going to cherish his present or is it going to be another toy in his collection?


**Title: **Look on the Dark Side**  
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**Author: **Aranel Naur**  
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**Rating: **R**  
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**Warnings: **adult language, adult themes**  
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**Pairing: **Adam/Tommy, Adam/Brad

**Summary:** a story where Adam, fallen angel, has his eye on Tommy, good angel, and wants to get him at any cost. What difficulties will he have to face, will he get the desired, is he going to cherish his present or is it going to be another toy in his collection?

**Author's notes:** not that I really wanted to start writing it in the first place, 'cuz come on, with 4 translation projects alongside 5 or 6 in-progress fanfics one must be nuts to take on yet another one. Yet impulse took the better of me, and one particular pic of Adam made my muse wake up from hibernation ;) Not that I had a plot, not a single idea to get hooked on – just one beautiful photo. Even after 2 passages written I barely understood in what direction I wanted it to develop. Not jumping at lengthy descriptions, neglecting them for a simple structure, I let it go, and so it went on and on. And even further

Read and review, please.

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**LOOK ON THE DARK SIDE**

**Chapter 1**

**A/n:** I wasn't all out to make anything special out of the first chapter. I let it ride, letting words flow, so they appeared in my note book without force or compulsion. I wasn't even going to make it past chapter 1, planning a oneshot. I have already had the plot outlined in my head when quite a powerful source of inspiration popped up and, ultimately, i had to restructure the entire idea, and that's where I knew there would be a lot more than one single chapter. It may get too complicated and tough, but the idea is worth trying to work at. At least, it's not going to be a second-rate schmaltzy fanfic, let's make it a good one

The poem you find in this chapter is my translation of A. Pushkin's one.

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"Mr Lambert, you should prepare for a meeting," quietly, after receiving a nod in confirmation, the servant steps back, and the door closes behind him.

"Mr Thomas Joe Ratliff, I figure."

For a brief moment the man stares where the elderly person had just disappeared before a shadow of a frown flickers through his features – maybe it's all a fantasy – but no second thought is given as he gets up, straigthens his jacket, and flashes a glance in the mirror.

Impéccable.

It's little later he can see someone else there. Without so much as a hint at a bow, a half-smile or a trace of a wink the visitor assesses the person in front of him with a slightly raised chin, and his entire appearance states he is not less narcissistic than the company. In fact, the company reciprocates with the same smugness, the corner of his mouth curved upward in a yet-noticeable but a smirk still.

"You missed the funeral last week, Adam," seems to say the look while the expression barely changes.

"I did," follows a numb reply, his eyes never leave the other's, yet lips stay sealed.

It is a dialog of course, but one where eyes speak so much more than mouths ever could, where instead of shoulting on top of their lungs they use incinerating gazes, telling a lot more than words can express. By this, the two have been acquainted for a while, able to communicate well enough on a non-verbal level.

And quite a while it's been indeed.

It is a spacious study where the young men are resting and where nothing reminds of natural coziness – where a cracking fireplace is supposed to be, it is empty, except a couple of intricate candleholders giving off somewhat blue tinge under the light of a big chandelier. Despite the general warm atmosphere the room feels gray-cool, lacking the usual comfort of a house –with its too many shadows cast by heavy furniture, and numerous corners so dark it's hard to make out what may be hiding there, and twilight creeping in from the un-blinded window.

These days murk came fast, autumn sky overclouded, spitting thin snowflakes occasionally, and they twirled in the air, slowly, before lying on the shivering ground.

Here it is as mute as outside. None of them speaks, both looking out into the street. With the shorter man before him, Adam has a good view of the landscape as well as the visitor. On the shoulders of his long black coat had melt several snowflakes, water still not soaked, turned into tiny sparkles of bulbs, similar drops linger on his face too, but the warmth of the place will soon dry them away. Adam tranfers his gaze at the scene in the window and starts in just above a whisper, rather to himself than the other guy,

"The sky foreshadowing fall season, The sun not giving any fizzle, Day getting brief, And forest's shady leaf Disrobing with a sadly whisper, Fields covering in mist, A cackling caravan of geese Stretched southward: there neared A time so very dead - November was at hand."

He hears no answer, but what he feels is more important.

"You've known from the beginning it was a wild goose chaise, so why did you take it up?" the guy turns around to face his counterpart, his brows knit.

"By this I assume Monte is angry."

Here comes a huff, "Angry isn't the word for it."

He wishes he could grab his forearms not to let him escape, and squeezes out a pathetic plea, "Tommy…" forcing to look at him again.

He doesn't, though.

Adam stands there, in desperate need for their eye-contact but the only thing he gets is those magnificent eyes averted, not in disgust, just offence, sadness; the chocolate brown is concealed under the shut eyelids and dark eyeshadow. He doesn't mark the time, but thinks it's been at least a few minutes since no one moves, and then he spots what looks like a small tear on Tommy's cheek – or perhaps it's a glitter randomly stuck – and he brushes the thought away. He breaks the contact afterwards, sharply disengaging the mental clasp so that it comes as painful; then sits down on the couch, luxurious and not less intricate than candleholders. He fixes the unmoving gaze at somebody who's avoiding it, and it hurts and irritates him. Such a glossy man with perfect looks is emotionally drained, and at a loss, and has no clue how to work it out, so deeply in a mess of his own wrong doings. The figure he is observing feels troubled too. In the same knee-length coat and a hat in his hand he is quiet and distant and cold, and all the more attractive; his profile reveals mild, almost feminine features, accentuated only just slightly with artificial colors, his blond hair and ever-present pout, high cheekbones and sharp chin – the image stands brightly in front of Adam as he studies it intently, yet missing the ability to touch, regretfully. He is beginning to lose it.

He shoots a glimpse sideways to catch his own reflection in the mirror thus shaking off the rush when his mouth distorts in a spiteful smirk – here he sits, looking askance, dressed with the latest fashion, in a house of his dreams, having all and everything he's ever wished. His life is stunning. Only there is no one to stun.

The figure is still at the window, lingering, waiting. So is he, confined to gazing, unable to get more from the person he sees. An eternity passes before one of them speaks up,

"You didn't attend the funeral last week," he repeats, honoring Adam the so-expected look, drowning him in the mesmerizing brown, leaving breathless for an instant.

"I didn't, but I sent them a nice letter saying I approved of it," watching the man turn away, he knows how it sounds – harsh, cruel but he has the reason for such response.

A mop of thick blond is what is before him; behind it, a sullen face and a pout he's been thinking about, but he doesn't move, resting on the couch in the unchanged, slightly leant forward position. Deathly muteness is killing, and on the inside he's all nervous although not displaying any of it. However, numbness cannot last forever, and not without indecision Adam gets up and takes a few slow steps to the guy who doesn't stir an inch, hat tightly held in his palm, drops of water almost dry on the back and shoulders of his coat. It's hard not to touch him for there is longing and dull agony and loneliness…

"Tommy…"

He is about to lay his hand when a knock on the door hinders it, and the palm remains flung in the air for a moment as if he's making a choice, not wanting to yield to the sane part of his mind, but it wins over nonetheless. The taller man goes open it, where it is the same old servant,

"Mr Lambert, you have a meeting tonight," before he excuses himself.

Back in the room, there is no trace of anyone else around. Tommy is not here anymore, and Adam only has to hope he'll see him some day later when he pays him a visit, rare and therefore all the more cherished.


End file.
